“I wonder why people get so bent out of shape when people now know their addresses.” I said, referencing how once upon a time there was a book with your name and address in it for anyone to look up. “You share more on social media than anyone I know .” Replied my wife. Not really in judgement, just a statement of fact. She’s not wrong. I’d just like to tell her why. Which I can’t. I don’t really know. But I’ll try. 

I was working for The Genesis Agency, elbowing my way into the running shoe business in the summer of 2008 and I was making cannonball run trips to St. Petersburg, FL, selling for two weeks and then powering through an 8-9 hour drive along the armpit of Florida, along HWY 19, full of sleepy little manatee sight seeing towns, refurbed 50’s motels and two lane roads, trying to get home to two kids under 6 and a loving, supportive wife. 

I remember this time pretty well. Michael Phelps’ historic run for 8 golds, witnessed in a rented apartment on a 12 inch tv, on a bed on the floor out by the dog track and dirt beach, the landlord balanced on the wrong edge of the mortgage crisis, calling often for rent that had already been paid. 

It was around this time, maybe sooner, that Facebook for the masses became a thing. What started as an app for college students, slowly trickled out to the public at large. I’d heard about it in 2005  -ish when I had a restaurant on the edge of LSU’s campus. I asked my employees how we could leverage the thing to get people in the door. The short answer. We really couldn’t. It hadn’t yet been set up that way, or at least we couldn’t figure out how to force it to. 14 years later and we still don’t. 

All of this is to say that I distinctly remember posting things on FB on these trips. I remember updating and interacting while driving back, in the dark, being chastised for texting and driving (remember you could text update FB?), a trailblazer of the texting and driving skill set  and now a guy you probably honk at when the light changes. 

While I have heard all the arguments about “likes” being the heroin of multiple generations, this period of time was one where I have a direct recollection of it. I liken this to a coke addict remembering which mirror and which rolled hundred dollar bill they were using when the lightbulb thought of “Man, this is really good yet terrible, and I’m going to ride this bullet train as fast as I can until it slams into the side of a mountain.”  It’s not often you get to see yourself slide into an addiction in a warmth inducing slow motion. But aye, I remember it. Oh yes. I remember. 

This wasn’t the first time I had traded “likes” and comments for good feelings. In the early aughts (don’t blame me. That’s what they’re calling them) I was founding member of the Baton Rouge Area Triathlete’s club, which morphed to BRTri and swelled to 250+ members at one point. It had a website that held club info but most importantly, a message board. This was the earliest social media (in my opinion) and I was a voracious participant. I posted, taunted, trolled, wrote lengthy “bloglike” posts and in general, stomped around like a big petulant child. It was mostly harmless, mostly, and my reputation as someone willing to call names and call out was cemented. Like most reputations, it was more bark than bite. I have memories of checking back often. To see who’d commented. Of replying. Of commenting some more. A slow drip of   dopamine or whatever. I’m just recognizing it for what it was. Facebook Lite, same great addiction, half the calories. 

Over time I’ve been accused of being a narcissist of sharing too much with the world and plenty more. Like most things, there’s more than a grain of truth to it. By grain, I mean loaf of bread. I try and be honest in these pages, so deflecting gets us nowhere. What I’ve come to realize is that all of the social medias feed that little thing inside me that’s wanted to be “almost famous” for as long as I remember. I say almost, because really, I want it on my terms. I want you to know who I am, but I want you to like me, I don’t want my actions questioned and I want to bow out quickly when any of the praise and recognition I purport to want, is lauded. Love the myth of me. Love the real me. But leave me alone too. This is an absurdity, but it’s about the best way I can describe it. 

Yes, this is reductionist and overly hard on myself in a lot of ways. For the most part I will not fabricate anything I share. I’ll give you the ugly with the pretty. I’ll share a voluminous amount of selfies (okay I make sure these look good. I mean I’m all about honesty...right after vanity). I will give most all of it to you whether you asked for it or not. It’s become my way of dealing with things in the world. And really, I’m mostly okay with it. 

I feel the scale shifting slowly away from a lot of what social media has been built into (for me at least).  The usefulness as a n advertising medium slowly diminished as over saturation occurs. Some days I’ll push one of these posts out into the collective web-o-sphere and nothing happens. Some days you love it. Most days the content working is equal to or greater than a post that garners more attention. I never know what will work. So I just keep sharing. 

I keep sharing because that’s the good of social media for me. I get it off my chest. I try and brighten a day with an anecdotal story. I openly rip my heart out and say “Life is hard, I’m with you on this!” I keep pushing it out because I like it and in this life, we should do things we like to do. We should of course know that sometimes that draws negativity, but if we are okay with that, then so be it. I share because ultimately, I’ve yet to become almost famous, an elementary school dream of greatness that’s never quite lost its grip. 

Also. I like taking selfies. 

#hugsandhi5s